“Flowers!” Mrs. Tipps scoffed. “It’s November. What flowers?”
“Oh, all the flowers waiting to bloom in spring,” Mrs. Price said airily. “What is that scent, dear? It smells wonderful.”
“Hot Cinnamon Spice.”
“Ooh!” She clapped her hands together. “Might I try it?”
“Of course.”
Mrs. Price threw a look at Mrs. Tipps. “I suppose you will stick with your Darjeeling.”
“It is a classic,” Mrs. Tipps said.
“I love to try something new.” Mrs. Price leaned on the counter. “Speaking of all things new, I noticed you had some commotion at your door last night, Belle.”
Belle bit her tongue in an effort to stifle a curse. She’d hoped that with the dark and the rain, her neighbors would not have spotted the Randalls’ coach or the footmen carrying Mr. Arundel inside.
“Did we?” she said, pretending to rummage about under the counter for the teacups. Of course, she knew exactly where they were. They were right where they always were.
“Yes,” Mrs. Price went on, seemingly unaware that Belle wished to avoid the topic. “Quite a grand carriage too. At least it looked like it from my window.”
Mrs. Price would know as she was almost always looking out her window, keeping a watchful eye on Fenchurch Street. She didn’t have a direct view of the shop as her flat was on the same side as the tea shop, but she could see the street well enough. Belle was usually appreciative of her neighbor’s vigilance. The shop had been vandalized a time or two and no shop in London was safe from urchins who ran in to snatch and grab.
At the moment, however, Belle wished Mrs. Price had been in bed last night. “It was Mr. and Mrs. Randall’s carriage,” she said. “Mrs. Randall is a family relation.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Price said. “Her brother is married to dear Margaret. How is Margaret?”
“Might I have my tea now?” Mrs. Tipps asked, impatiently. Clearly, she was in no mood for chitchat.
“Of course.” Belle held out the tea and took the coin Mrs. Tipps offered. “Margaret is well. She is with Mr. Dormer at his country house.”
Mrs. Tipps gathered her tea and started back toward the door and the rack holding her wrap.
“Then it was not she who was carried out of the carriage last night,” Mrs. Price said. Mrs. Tipps halted, turned, and started back for the counter.
Belle pretended to remember her Hot Cinnamon Spice. “I think this has steeped long enough. Let me drain the leaves and pour you a cup.”
“None for me, thank you,” Mrs. Tipps said. “Who was carried inside last night?”
Belle took her time with the tea, trying to decide what or how much to say. But really, what was the point in hiding the truth or dissembling? Everyone knew the business of everyone else on Fenchurch Street, and it would all come out eventually.
Belle turned with a teacup in each hand. She set the cups on the counter. “It is a man called Mr. Arundel. He was stabbed.”
Mrs. Price made an O with her mouth, and Mrs. Tipps’s eyes widened. She took one of the cups of tea—the tea she had not wanted—and sipped.
“Stabbed?” Mrs. Price said, finally recovering her voice.
Belle nodded. “I don’t know the details, but he is good friends with Mr. Randall. Apparently, he was accosted right outside their home.”
“And how do you know this man?” Mrs. Tipps asked, eyes narrowed.
“I don’t.”
“He is acquainted with Mr. Howard then?”
Belle shook her head. “No. Neither of us had met the man before last night.” She might drag this conversation out by offering only tidbits of information here and there, but that would only mean she would be asked about it all day from one neighbor or another who would find an excuse to stop in. She could avoid some of that if she just told Mrs. Price. Mrs. Price would be certain to inform the rest of the street. Mrs. Price picked up the other cup of Hot Cinnamon Spice and seemed to settle in for a tale.
“The Randalls were quite at sixes and sevens,” she said. “Mrs. Randall is with child, and it seemed the shock of Mr. Arundel’s injury sent her into labor.”
